


carve your name into my arm

by asael



Series: every you  & every me [1]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crimson Flower Route, Dubious Consent, Explicit Sexual Content, Face-Fucking, Imprisonment, Knifeplay, M/M, Mind Games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-24
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:15:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21940222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asael/pseuds/asael
Summary: Claude is a captive of the Empire. Hubert wants his assistance. Claude has no interest in making this easy, and they are both in over their heads.
Relationships: Claude von Riegan/Hubert von Vestra
Series: every you  & every me [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640683
Comments: 30
Kudos: 217





	carve your name into my arm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bucketmouse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bucketmouse/gifts).



> This is a Christmas gift fic for Kels, who I love and adore! I hope you like it. ♥ Inspiration comes from her AMAZING [fanart!](https://twitter.com/antiquecipher/status/1182453876051476480?s=20)

It is Hubert who starts it all. A brilliant idea, he thinks, that has been slowly forming in the back of his mind since they took the Great Bridge of Myrddin. Since they began destablizing Claude’s careful balancing act, the only thing keeping the Alliance together. It will fall into their hands, he is sure, the only obstacle being whatever Claude’s labyrinth of a mind has waiting for them in Derdriu.

A triumph there means the Alliance is truly Edelgard’s. And Claude von Riegan - 

He asks for their mercy, of course, and Edelgard hesitates. Though she holds herself still, keeps her thoughts from her face, Hubert knows her better than anyone. He can read the uncertainty in her eyes, the knife’s edge she teeters on.

Leave Claude alive, and despite his assurances that he would simply leave, he may still become a problem for them in the future. Charismatic and shockingly intelligent, he has been a threat and could easily be one again. Smarter to end him here and now, to defeat the Alliance in such a decisive fashion, to take away their leader and figurehead.

But this is Claude, who they went to school with, who teased Edelgard gently and smiled at her in the dining hall and treated everyone around him with an easy sort of familiarity. It was an act, of course, Hubert saw right through it, but he knows that to Edelgard that doesn’t matter. Claude treated her like a person and an equal, and she has not forgotten that.

Pragmatically, they should kill Claude. But Edelgard hesitates, and glances for a moment at Professor Byleth next to her, and then Hubert’s idea slides into place, as sharp and brilliant as a knife.

“Take him prisoner,” he says to Edelgard. She can hear him, the professor can, Claude can. No one else. He sees Claude’s eyes widen. “Claude has a mind for strategy that we can use. It would be a waste to kill him, but we cannot allow him to walk free.” He is saying it to Edelgard, but his eyes are on Claude, trying to read him.

It’s impossible. A flicker of an expression crosses Claude’s face, and then he smiles like it’s nothing. “Well, better that than losing my head, I guess.“

“Hubert,” Edelgard says, turning to him. “He will be a danger within our ranks, too. You cannot truly believe that he will help us, after all of this.” But she hasn’t rejected the thought completely, Hubert can see. It walks the line between her two choices, still pragmatic without totally disregarding mercy.

“I believe I can convince him to,” Hubert says, with just enough of a trace of menace that Claude’s eyes rest on him, narrowing. “I will take responsibility for him, your majesty.”

Edelgard’s shoulders tense, and then relax. “Very well. Don’t make me regret this.” She takes a breath. “Claude von Riegan, I grant you the mercy of the Adrestian crown. You will be Hubert’s responsibility, until either you swear fealty to me or another fate is chosen for you.”

Claude lowers his head, accepting her judgement.

Hubert smiles, a thin and dangerous thing.

***

“I didn’t take you for the optimistic sort,” Claude says.

They are in Enbarr. Hubert judged it unwise to keep Claude at the monastery - he knows the place too well, and it’s too close to the former Alliance. It’s all part of the Empire now, but Hubert knows that there are still people within those lands whose loyalty is to Claude, not Edelgard and her conquering armies. Garreg Mach would be easy for Claude to slip out of, and if he went to ground in the Alliance they would have a hell of a time capturing him again.

So he’s stepped away from Edelgard’s side to deliver Claude to the Imperial capital. Here, there are loyal soldiers who will watch him, and here he has no allies.

Or rather, few allies. Hubert is not foolish enough to believe that Claude doesn’t have spies within the capital. 

“I am not,” he says, eyes following Claude’s movements.

As the former leader of the Alliance, Claude is a valuable prisoner. As such, he cannot be simply tossed in a dungeon - at least, not yet. If he proves to be too much of a danger, Hubert will reevaluate that decision, but if that turns out to be the case it will be wiser to simply kill him. For now, he will be kept in relative luxury.

Claude’s rooms are well-appointed, though the windows are only thin arrow-slits, far too small to climb out of. He has a comfortable bed, a fireplace, a sitting area. There are guards on his door, and he does not hold the key to the complex lock on it, but Hubert has commanded the guards to bring him books if he wishes, within reason.

Hubert is not a cruel captor. Or rather, he could be far crueler than he is being now.

Claude is walking the limits of the room, catching the last of the spare sunlight through the arrow-slits, learning the borders of his prison. 

“You think you can convince me to help you,” Claude says, turning just slightly so his sharp eyes can rest on Hubert. “That seems awfully optimistic.”

“You’re an intelligent man,” Hubert says. “I have little doubt that you will see reason sooner or later.” And if Claude doesn’t, there are other options. He could be ransomed back to House Riegan, perhaps, or what is left of it - though Hubert is not terribly fond of any option that puts Claude’s keen mind in a position to be used against the Empire.

But it is obvious enough that Riegan was never Claude’s only allegiance. Perhaps there is someone else out there who might pay dearly to get their wayward son back into their hands.

Hubert is not yet ready to give up on his initial plan, though. He has seen what Claude can do. He can imagine that intelligence, that tactical skill, in Edelgard’s service.

“I don’t disagree with her goals, necessarily,” Claude says. He turns toward Hubert now, leaning back against the wall behind him. Casual and cool, he shows no fear, no concern at being a prisoner. Hubert expected nothing less. “But her methods… _your_ methods. Those, I can’t really get behind.”

“We are doing what must be done. Edelgard understands that wars cannot be fought without bloodshed. You’re naive if you believe otherwise.”

Claude looks at him for a long moment. “I kept bloodshed out of the Alliance until you brought it to our doorstep. I didn’t ask for that war, and offered you no pretext for invasion.” There is something serious in his eyes now, something that flickers like anger. “And after that, you think I’ll help you attack Faerghus? Destroy the church?” He smiles then, cheerful and open, though there is no hint of it in his eyes. “Now that, my friend, is optimism.”

“You would rather waste away in this room, useless and bored?” Hubert says. It is calculated. The truth is, he does not know Claude well enough to know which levers to pull. Claude has always been unpredictable, and they have never been close, for all that Hubert has appreciated his tactical skill. And, on top of all of that, while Hubert is talented at strategy, at doing the dirty work, at intimidating and frightening and using all of that to manipulate people - when it comes to manipulating people without those tactics, he is not necessarily the most skilled.

Claude will not be easily intimidated. Hubert had hoped he would simply see sense, understand that helping Edelgard is the best and only course, but it seems he will have to resort to other methods.

Claude shrugs. “I’ve been working pretty hard for the past five years, I could use a break. And you’ve put me in such a nice room - might as well spend some time laying around and looking pretty.” He winks at Hubert, a move surely calculated to be infuriating, but Hubert simply smiles.

“If that is what you wish to do,” he says, and Claude’s eyes narrow. Then Hubert bows and unlocks the door, letting himself out. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

If Claude will not see plain sense, perhaps humiliation will work.

***

Humiliation does not work.

When Hubert visits Claude the next day, he isn’t entirely sure what to expect. He left clear orders with the guards, and they have not come to him with any new reports, so Claude isn’t throwing a fit. He lets himself in expecting to see Claude in the same clothes he wore the previous day, or perhaps in the clothing he slept in. A protest.

Instead, Claude is wearing the clothing Hubert had brought for him: a dancer’s outfit, rather more risque than the ones they had at the Academy. It shows quite a lot of skin, and Claude seems utterly unbothered, stretched out across a chair with a book in his lap.

“Oh, Hubert. There you are.”

The intention, of course, had been to shame Claude. To show him that if he didn’t wish to put his mind to work, he would indeed be nothing more than a pretty ornament. Hubert had ordered the guards to bring him only this as a replacement for his usual clothing, expecting some sort of resistance - but he should have known that Claude von Riegan would not be so easily manipulated.

He doesn’t even look embarrassed.

“Indeed,” Hubert says. “It seems as though you are settling in well.” He won’t allow Claude the satisfaction of a reaction, though he is well aware that is probably the exact reason Claude is wearing the outfit without a care in the world.

In truth, there’s some part of Hubert buried deep down that’s… pleased.

His duty is to Lady Edelgard, and his goals match hers. That path will not be easy, but it’s a matter of strength, of victory in battle. With Claude off the board, he had thought there would be no one to match wits with. The Church, Faerghus - all far more straightforward, far less interesting.

He wishes for Claude to help them, and if in the end he proves too resistant, Hubert will dispose of him. But until then, while he won’t allow Claude to become a _distraction_ , he can perhaps indulge himself by playing this game that seems to be developing.

Claude moves, stretching, exposing tan skin and lean muscles. Hubert has never been the sort to be distracted by a pretty face, but he can admit that the golden fabric makes him glow, the drape of it accentuating the casual, easy way he moves. Hubert remembers then that, though Dorothea ultimately won the White Heron Cup, Claude managed a good showing.

“I thought you wanted me so I’d help out Edelgard, but now it seems like you had something else in mind the whole time.” Claude’s smile is sly. He doesn’t get up.

“I simply decided that rather than allowing you to be as utterly useless as you like, I would ensure you at least offered the guards something pleasant to look at,” Hubert says.

“The guards?” Claude raises an eyebrow. “How charitable of you.”

Hubert draws his eyes away from the curve of Claude’s neck, pulling a small collection of letters from his coat. “If you’d like to be slightly more useful than that, you can tell me what you think of these.”

They are letters copied by Hubert’s spies, sent between Fhirdiad and Arianrhod. He has gleaned some information from them, but Claude could likely pry out more, if he wished to.

He does not wish to. Hubert spends an infuriating two hours running around in circles, learning only that Claude believes Arianrhod probably has worse cuisine than Fhirdiad, before giving up on this particular tactic. He leaves Claude alone for the rest of the day.

 _Let him stew_ , he thinks, and decides on his next tactic.

***

He does not return Claude’s clothing. That would be admitting defeat on the matter, and Hubert will not do that. If Claude wishes to dress as a dancer, Hubert will help him do so, and that will be that.

His next tactic is a bit different.

“Come with me,” he says, and though he knows there’s always a possibility of resistance, Claude merely raises a brow and follows him. They walk through the halls, and Hubert finds it rather pleasing that the jewelry Claude wears causes him to jingle with every step. Even the most graceful person in the world could not be utterly silent in dancer’s garb, and though Claude does move with rather astonishing control, he’s not _that_ good.

So Claude broadcasts each movement, neatly undercutting any chance of being a real threat. Of course, Hubert has also ensured he has no weapons. They’re not quite to the point where he might expect Claude to attempt to kill him, but he also isn’t foolish enough to assume he’s safe simply because of that.

Claude does draw stares, though, stares which he seems utterly unbothered by. Passing servants and guards widen their eyes, shocked to see Hubert, of all people, in the company of one so scandalously attired.

It might not be such a sight if Edelgard had taken consorts, but if she did, Hubert would advise strongly against using someone like Claude for that purpose.

So they collect shocked looks, and the corners of Claude’s lips curve into a pleased little smile, and Hubert ignores all of it.

“What they must think of you,” Claude murmurs, after another servant’s eyes have widened in mingled shock and horror before scurrying away, no doubt to spread rumors. Hubert does not particularly care about that, either. He is well accustomed to rumors about himself, and while this will be a new sort, it makes no difference to him.

He unlocks the door to a small room, walls lined with books, a desk in the center. There is a small pile of letters on it, a few notebooks, and a map.

His study.

“You paraded me through the halls just to get me alone in here?” Claude says. His tone is casual, mocking, but his eyes are sharp. They roam the walls, the desk, taking it all in. Hubert shuts the door behind them.

“If that’s what I wanted, I would have had it already,” Hubert says. Claude looks at him, eyebrows raised, smile a vicious little thing, but he says nothing. Hubert walks to the desk, and Claude drifts along after him. “Look here.”

It’s a map of the Alliance - the former Alliance - all spread out on the desk. The many lords’ holdings are shaded in different colors, from red through to yellow, all depending on how strong their loyalty is to Edelgard. Their new Emperor. He sees Claude take it in, sees the moment when he understands what it means.

“It’s all ours now,” Hubert says. He does not intend to rub Claude’s defeat in, but if it stings a bit, all the better. “Many were all too willing to bow to Lady Edelgard’s rule. Others are more… reluctant. But she would rather rule them kindly, if given the choice. _You_ could help with that.”

Claude finishes the thought for him. “Or, if I don’t help, you could target those who were most loyal to me.” He says it evenly, without even a glance at Hubert for confirmation. His eyes are on the map, where House Daphnel and House Goneril’s lands stand out for their yellow tone.

“Indeed,” Hubert says. He feels no shame in this. Edelgard’s victory comes above all, including shame, including mercy. He is not certain yet that Claude’s help is worth the ruin of noble houses that might yet be brought to their banner - but on the other hand, these houses have been resisting Edelgard in small, hidden ways. Not outright rebellion, not after their leader’s defeat, but Daphnel’s initial shipments of food and weapons have been ‘lost’, with no explanation forthcoming. Goneril claims the border must be held, and has not provided any troops.

Claude could win them over. Or he could choose not to help, and they could be destroyed for their insolence.

He thinks Claude is making the same calculations. When Claude’s eyes meet his, cold above that constant smile, he knows he is right.

“Threatening my friends is no way to get me to help you,” Claude says. His voice is deceptively light.

“On the contrary,” Hubert says. “Hate me as much as you wish. If you assist Lady Edelgard in her victory, it will certainly be worthwhile.” In truth, he’s not sure that’s true. A Claude who openly assists them, of his own free will, would be ideal. A Claude who they must watch at every turn, who becomes a personal enemy, may not be worth the trouble.

But this is just another tactic. Another way of showing how the balance of power tilts, how much Claude has to gain by throwing his lot in with Edelgard.

Claude opens his mouth, about to say something, when they are interrupted by an insistent knock at the door. “Lord Vestra!”

“Come,” Hubert says, and the messenger barely waits for his approval. He pushes the door open, then pauses, eyes wide.

Hubert, somewhat belatedly, realizes what it must look like. Claude, in that scandalous dancer’s garb, standing close to him. Alone in his study.

Claude realizes it too, and the barest flicker of amusement crosses his face. He moves smoothly, hitches himself up on the desk, flashing much more thigh than is entirely proper. He leans in toward Hubert, tilting his head, lowering his lashes.

Playing a game. Trying to spread rumors. Trying, he thinks, to make him uncomfortable.

But this is not a game that Hubert will lose.

He catches hold of the tall chair, the one he’d pushed back from the desk so there would be room enough for them both to look at the map. He pulls it close, takes a seat, and then reaches out and pulls Claude into his lap.

Claude’s eyes widen as he realizes what Hubert is doing - playing into his display, taking the game and pushing it to the next level.

Claude wants to spread rumors, get tongues wagging, make everyone think the Emperor’s shadow has taken a war prize? 

Hubert thinks that in this, Claude has misplayed. He has underestimated his own reputation. It will do nothing but increase the fear and awe that people often feel for Hubert if they think he’s keeping Claude von Riegan, former leader of the alliance and notably brilliant strategist, as his pet.

So he smiles, thinly, and places his hand on Claude’s thigh. Claude is warm against him, a not insignificant weight on Hubert’s lap. He can’t get up now without losing the game.

“Yes?” Hubert says to the messenger, who he has not for a moment forgotten is there.

“Uh,” the man says, visibly gathering his composure. His eyes skip from Claude’s hand, now on Hubert’s shoulder, to Hubert’s gloved fingers on Claude’s bare thigh. “I have a message from the Emperor.”

Hubert straightens, just a little. Something important, then. “Continue.” Claude has leaned in, his breath against Hubert’s neck, intimate as a lover. Hubert retaliates by sliding his hand further up Claude’s thigh.

“There’s - um, there’s a small force of Almyrans at Fódlan’s Throat. Our forces there are thin, and they’re on the verge of taking the Locket. She will ride to quell them in four days. She wishes your presence.” The messenger is flushed, but collected enough to complete his duty.

“I see,” Hubert says. Most of his mind is on this summons, already making plans, deciding what it means. A small part is thinking about letting his hand wander higher, touching Claude through the thin fabric there, seeing where that might take their game. “Very well. Send a message in reply - I’ll depart tonight.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man says, and his eyes skitter over Claude one more time before he departs.

Hubert expects Claude to get up the moment the man has left the room, but he doesn’t, and so Hubert does not remove Claude from his lap. He does not remove his hand from Claude’s thigh, either.

“Almyrans,” he says, “how interesting.” Hubert has long since drawn some conclusions that he believes are fairly obvious - though perhaps he is wrong, since no one else has mentioned them. But Claude’s mysterious origins, his appearance, the army of Almyrans assisting him at Derdriu… the only question is who he was before he crossed the mountains.

But that is a mystery Hubert cannot easily solve. He has no spies in Almyra, no time or resources to waste obtaining them. He can assume that is where Claude’s roots lay, and he can likewise assume that Claude has enough pull there to gain the assistance of Nader the Undefeated. More than that, he cannot say.

Claude laughs, an easy and uncomplicated thing. “They know you’re distracted with the war. Nader wouldn’t pass up that chance.”

Hubert moves then, lifting Claude with some effort and placing him on the desk. He doesn’t move away, not yet. He is between Claude’s legs, so close, leaning in. “Or perhaps they’re trying to retrieve something important to them.”

Claude smiles at him. “Unlikely. If someone was captured, it would be up to them to find a way to win themselves free. Almyrans have little use for anyone who can’t even manage that.”

Hubert knows little of Almyran customs, has never before needed to know, and so he must take Claude’s words at face value. For now. “Tell me about Nader.”

“He’s noisy,” Claude says, straight-faced. “They make a stuffed bear that looks like him. It’s much cuter than the real thing.”

Hubert’s hands are on the desk, on either side of Claude. He presses in closer, reaches past Claude, taps gloved fingers on the map they’d been looking at before. “If you had more useful information,” he says, low and only slightly threatening, “I could be convinced to change a few things about this. It might be interesting.”

Claude leans in, his hand settling on Hubert’s arm, close enough to whisper in his ear.

“It will be much more interesting,” Claude says, “to see how well you do against Nader without my help.”

***

The Black Eagle Strike Force does well enough. They win the day, at least, and drive Nader and his Almyrans back through Fódlan’s Throat. Some of their battalions take heavy losses, however, and Caspar receives a wicked wound on his arm from a giant bird.

Hubert had not been expecting the birds. That would have been useful to know.

Edelgard does not ask him how things are going with Claude. She knows he’ll tell her once there is something to report, and “He is infuriatingly unhelpful, but I have not yet given up” is not something to report.

He returns to Enbarr. There are a few other affairs to see to first, but then he intends to inform Claude of his victory. Perhaps he’ll say Nader has been killed - untrue, but Claude’s reaction should be enlightening.

Hubert’s plans are derailed when, in his study, he reaches for one of his notebooks and discovers that it is not there. A cold anger rushes through him. He is the only one with a key to this room, and though the information in that notebook would be incomprehensible to most - would sound like fairy tales or nightmares - it’s all true. In the wrong person’s hands, it could be dangerous. No one should have been able to get in here. No one should have been able to get their hands on it.

He realizes then that there is, in fact, one other person who has been in his study. One other person who could have taken the notebook.

Though, given Claude’s attire when Hubert brought him here, Hubert feels some faint, grudging respect that he managed to steal the notebook without it being noticed. Hubert had been _quite_ close to him, too. It had to have been a feat, and Hubert is partly responsible for not noticing, but that changes nothing.

Claude has stolen valuable knowledge from him. Who knows what else he might have taken. Thicker than the respect is a strand of anger, anger at Claude’s audacity. Anger at being outplayed.

He stalks his way through the halls, the expression on his face causing the people he passes to give him a wide berth. Claude’s room - his prison - is securely locked. The guard outside straightens as he sees Hubert, and Hubert waves him off. Whatever comes next will require privacy. Hubert is not worried for his safety - Claude is unarmed.

Hubert is not.

The door shuts behind him, and there is Claude. He’s still in that ridiculous dancer’s getup - of course he is. Hubert has not ordered that normal clothing be given to him. He wasn’t willing to back down yet, had no desire to hand Claude a win.

“You’re back,” Claude says, looking up at him from where he’s curled comfortably in one of the chairs. At least, to most appearances he would seem comfortable - but Hubert can see the tension in his body, see the way Claude’s eyes track where he is in the room.

Claude is not afraid of him. But Claude is, rightfully, wary.

Hubert likes the rush of power he feels, realizing that.

“I am,” says Hubert, with every bit of his composure intact. “A complete success. Fódlan’s Locket is now well-defended.”

“Too bad,” Claude says with a smile. “You and Edelgard could stand to take a few losses. You’ll get overconfident otherwise.”

“Will we?” Hubert walks closer. “It seems I already have. Where is my notebook?”

“What notebook?” Claude says. He says it with perfect innocence, the widening of his eyes and the confusion in his voice a near-exact imitation of someone who really doesn’t have a clue.

Hubert is close to Claude now, close enough to place a hand on the back of his chair and lean down, close enough to tower over him just enough. Close enough that it’s easy to slide the thin knife he carries out of its sheath, so its cold metal presses against Claude’s skin.

Hubert is incredibly skilled at dark magic. He does not really need a weapon, but sometimes there is a point that will be made much better on the keen edge of a knife.

Claude goes very still.

“Oh,” he says, and the corners of his lips twitch up, just for a moment. “ _That_ notebook. I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”

“You stole from my office,” Hubert says. He watches the way Claude breathes, the way his skin rises up to press against the edge of Hubert’s knife with not quite enough pressure to break the skin. He watches Claude’s eyelashes flutter.

“You shouldn’t leave things out if you don’t want them taken,” Claude says, heedless of the fact that normally few step foot in that room, the fact that he stole it from right beneath Hubert’s nose. 

But Hubert was distracted, he remembers now. He remembers Claude’s warm weight on his lap, Claude’s breath against his ear, the slight hitch of his body as Hubert’s hand drew up the length of his perfect thigh.

So there had been layers to that game. Hubert does not like being made a fool of. He slides the knife along Claude’s skin, over his jaw, up his cheek, until the tip is resting at the edge of his eye.

Claude has uncommonly pretty eyes. Hubert has noticed this before. Their green is the green of the forest, of growing things, and it stands out against the darker hue of his skin. They would not be quite so pretty separated from his face, but Hubert thinks they would still have a certain charm.

“Can you shoot a bow with only one eye?” he asks, musing. “I would think the changes in depth perception would make it difficult.”

Claude swallows, but when he speaks, his voice is light and unafraid. “I can shoot a bow blindfolded, actually, though I don’t always hit what I mean to. Anyone who stood too close would have to be very careful.”

Hubert presses, just a touch, just enough for the tip of his knife to prick Claude’s skin. Claude’s breath hitches, and a tiny spot of blood appears on his cheek. Barely there, barely anything. Hubert reaches out, brushes away the speck with a gentle movement of his hand. Afterward, there’s a smear of blood on his glove, and Claude’s face looks untouched.

He feels only the faintest surprise when he realizes he likes it better that way.

He doesn’t press in again. He draws the knife down instead, over Claude’s skin, the lightest of touches. He sees Claude shiver, and feels only satisfaction. Down further, and he slips the knife under the fabric tied upon Claude’s shoulder, practically the only thing covering his upper half.

The fabric is delicate. The knife is sharp. Cut, it pools at Claude’s waist, against the seat of the chair.

He hears Claude breathe in.

He was lovely in that ridiculous outfit. He’s lovelier half out of it, a flush on his cheeks, something glittering in his eyes.

“So this _is_ what you brought me here for,” Claude says, and the smile on his face is infuriating and intoxicating.

“If that’s what I wanted,” Hubert says slowly, sliding his knife back into its sheath, “I would have had it already.”

“No,” Claude says, and he is looking up at Hubert, looking at nothing else. “I think you wanted a challenge.”

And Hubert tangles his fingers in Claude’s hair, pulls his head back, and kisses him.

He kisses Claude hard, and Claude lets him, and then Claude’s hand is fisted in his shirt and he’s kissing Hubert back, hungrily or angrily or both. Claude is so difficult to read, difficult to anticipate, and if Hubert were being entirely honest he would admit that he no longer knows if this is a game or if it’s real, if he’s won or if he’s lost.

But he thinks that Claude may no longer know, either.

“I’m not the only one,” he says, in that brief moment between kisses. He presses Claude against the high back of the chair, one hand in his hair, and lets his other hand travel downward, across the bare planes of Claude’s chest. He pinches one nipple, hard, and is rewarded by Claude gasping against his lips, arching under his hand. If there were a moment for Claude to push him away, to end this game, to admit defeat, it would be then.

He doesn’t. He releases Hubert’s shirt, instead, and reaches to press his hand against the hardness between Hubert’s legs. Hubert suppresses a gasp, just barely, and tugs Claude’s hair sharply before pulling back.

Claude is flushed and breathing hard, lips red and slick from Hubert’s mouth. He smiles for a moment, just a moment, and then Hubert lets him go. It’s only for long enough to unbuckle his belt, open his pants, free his length from its uncomfortable confinement.

This is a terrible idea, he thinks. But it’s gone too far to stop now.

He grabs ahold of Claude’s hair again, tugs him downward, positioning his cock in front of Claude’s lips. 

“Put that mouth of yours to work,” Hubert says, superior and certain, and Claude does.

He starts carefully, licking the head of Hubert’s cock before taking it in his mouth, sliding his tongue around the crown, taking him deeper. Claude knows what he’s doing, and Hubert is hard-pressed to keep what composure he has left. Claude’s mouth is hot and slick and so good, and Hubert wants more, and -

And he isn’t going to let _Claude_ dictate the pace of this, he realizes. Claude is not in charge here.

He pulls Claude’s hair hard, and presses forward, pushing into Claude’s mouth, making Claude take more of him, heedless of whether he’s ready for it. Claude makes a noise, a noise Hubert doesn’t quite know how to interpret but that he can tell doesn’t mean _stop_. If anything, it sounds pleased, it sounds like Claude is enjoying this, and - 

It doesn’t matter. With some effort, Claude is taking him deeper, taking all that Hubert gives him, and to Hubert’s - well, something like surprise - he can see that Claude’s hand is in his lap now, between his legs, tugging at himself.

He’s finding it hard to keep his thoughts straight. He thrusts into Claude’s mouth, and now that Claude is prepared for it he _takes_ it. More than that, he takes it and _moans_ , and the sound of it, the _feel_ of it, is incredible. Hubert presses into the impossible warmth, the wetness of Claude’s mouth, and he sees Claude’s hand move on his own cock. 

“You slut,” he says, and his own voice is tight “you _enjoy _this.” Claude’s eyes glitter up at him, lustful or amused or a little of both, and he finds himself moving faster, fucking into Claude’s mouth, wanting release or to see Claude go mindless with need or both, or everything, something he doesn’t know how to put words to.__

__He pulls Claude’s hair again, and Claude’s back arches, and he goes deeper - he could swear he’s halfway down Claude’s throat, and it’s so good, so wet and hot, Claude’s nose practically brushing his stomach. Claude is stroking himself faster, hand moving beneath the fabric pooled around his waist, cheeks flushed._ _

__Hubert thrusts into his mouth again, and it’s too much. He comes hard, releasing down Claude’s throat with no warning, pleasure rushing through him. Claude chokes and coughs, Hubert’s cum spilling over his chin, but he manages to swallow most of it. Hand still moving on himself, Claude’s hips jerk, he makes a soft sound around Hubert’s cock, and then he goes still._ _

__Letting the strands of Claude’s hair fall from his fingers, Hubert pulls back. Claude is looking at him. Claude brings up a thumb, swiping it along his chin, catching most of the seed there, and then - carefully - he licks it off._ _

__Hubert watches him. Even now, when he has just come, he feels a stirring of lust in his core._ _

__This game, he thinks, has gone far beyond his control._ _

__He tucks himself away, buckles his belt, and leaves._ _

____

***

He returns the next morning, after a late night spent analyzing every moment, every word, every movement of Claude’s body and sound he made. Claude is waiting for him.

On the table in front of the fire is Hubert’s notebook. Hubert looks from it to Claude, and raises an eyebrow.

“You asked if I had it,” Claude says. “You didn’t ask what I thought of it.”

And that, Hubert thinks, was likely his biggest mistake. He’d lost sight of what was truly important. “Well?” he says. “What did you think?”

Claude’s lips curve into a smile, clever and dangerous.

“I won’t help you fight Dimitri or the church. That’s on you. But these people - _Those Who Slither in the Dark_ \- I would be _happy_ to help you destroy them.”

Hubert keeps his voice level, though he feels a rush of triumph. “For now, we must work with them. Until Lady Edelgard secures her victory.”

“Do you?” Claude says, and he leans forward. “I should think you’d want to consider making plans now. Undermining them. Creating the conditions for a perfect victory.” His eyes are sharp, his smile easy, and this, _this_ is why Hubert wanted him. It lights a fire in him.

“In that case,” he says, controlling himself, “I think we have things to discuss.”

“We do.” Claude pauses and smiles at him, a breathtaking smile of utter beauty. “Of course, I plan to put poison in your coffee at the first opportunity.”

Hubert smiles then too, sharp as his knife. “I will be looking forward to it.”

The future is bright.


End file.
